Chapter 9
Clare
The lock fought me like a personal vendetta. Damn it!
Stubborn tumblers, ancient mechanism, metal so cold it burned through my gloves.
Twenty-four hours since the detective’s visit, twenty-four hours of watching police swarm the neighborhood then gradually shift their search grid elsewhere.
Far enough that I’d risked slipping out during a lull, buying Xavier clothes from a charity shop three blocks over.
Coat, boots, backpack. Everything he’d need to walk out of my life.
Brilliant plan, Clare. Get him mobile so he can leave faster.
The key scraped against frozen metal. My breath fogged in the alley darkness, mixing with Xavier’s steady exhale beside me. He stood close, positioned between me and the street like a human shield.
Another scrape. The tumbler shifted, caught, resisted.
Come on, you bastard.
Xavier’s palm settled on my shoulder. Light pressure. Questioning.
“I’m fine. Just... stubborn lock.” Voice too tight. “Give me a second.”
His fingers brushed my collarbone through my coat. Once. Steady.
The tumbler clicked.
Relief mixed with fresh terror as I pushed the entrance open. Slipped inside. Xavier followed, pulling it shut with controlled precision.
Both froze. Listening.
Nothing. No footsteps. No voices. No sirens.
Reached for the light switch.
Harsh fluorescent buzz filled the space. Yellowed institutional light revealed exactly what I’d described: converted storage unit masquerading as a clinic, concrete floors, sparse equipment decades old, no windows.
The X-ray machine hunched in the corner like a sleeping hippo. Old tech that would take time to warm up.
But it would show what hid beneath skin and bone.
Xavier moved past me, checking the space. Wearing clothes that fit him properly for the first time since I’d cut away his tactical gear. Ready to disappear the moment we finished here.
“Sit.” Gestured toward the exam table. “Need to check your throat first.”
He crossed to it, lowered himself with controlled movements that couldn’t quite hide the remaining stiffness.
Washed my palms in the small sink. Cold water, industrial soap, trying to channel professional mode.
Turned back to find him watching me with that dark, intent focus.
Stop noticing. Work to do.
Crossed to stand between his knees. “This might be uncomfortable. Tell me if anything hurts. Well... gesture if anything hurts.”
An almost-smile crossed his face.
My fingertips made contact with his neck.
Palpated carefully. Checking larynx position, feeling for structural damage. Years of ER nursing guiding my touch. His skin was warm. Scars raised under my fingertips, surgical precision, deliberate cuts. Someone had opened the back of his neck.
His throat moved when he swallowed.
Xavier sat absolutely still. Letting me examine. Trusting. But he wasn’t watching what I was doing.
He studied my face.
Stay clinical. Check for abnormalities.
“Open your mouth. Need to check internally.”
Retrieved a penlight and tongue depressor. Stepped nearer, directly between his spread knees now.
“Wide,” I murmured.
Xavier obeyed. Tilted his head back.
Angled the penlight down his throat. Pharynx appeared normal. Pink, healthy tissue. No inflammation. The vocal cords themselves seemed intact. Mobile when he breathed. No visible paralysis or lesions.
“Swallow for me.”
The muscles worked. Coordination normal.
So why the hell can’t he speak?
Pulled back. Needed distance. “External exam shows nothing. Need images to see what’s hidden. Shoulder check first, make sure my field work held.”
Flipped the machine on. Ancient tech hummed to life.
“Shirt off.”
Xavier stood, shrugged out of the coat. Pulled the sweater over his head.
Color returned to his skin. Bruising shifted from angry purple to sickly yellow-green. Wounds closing faster than they should.
“Range of motion test.” Moved behind him. “Lift your arm slowly.”
He raised the previously dislocated shoulder. Careful, controlled.
Almost full mobility.
The dislocation had been severe. Should take weeks to regain this much function.
Not days.
“Good. Really good, actually. Let’s confirm with imaging.”
Positioned him for the X-ray. Equipment finally ready. “Stay still.”
Hit the button. Equipment clicked and whirred.
The image developed on screen.
Clean result. Joint properly aligned. No fractures.
“Reduction held.” Grabbed k-tape from the supply cabinet. Positioned it across his shoulder with firm pressure. “This’ll help with stability.”
Finished. Stepped back before the contact could mean more than it should.
“Head and throat next. Need exact positioning.”
Xavier’s expression shifted. Tension sliding into place.
This was it. Answers about why he couldn’t speak.
What if nothing shows? What if it shows something I can’t fix?
Gestured for him to lie back on the table.
“Hold still. This needs to be precise.”
Leaned over to adjust positioning. Palms cupping his jaw, turning his head to the correct angle. Fingertips sliding into his hair, cradling his skull.
Our faces ended up inches apart.
His attention locked on mine.
Then I pulled away. “That should do it.”
Hit the button before I could second-guess.
Equipment clicked and whirred. Image processing.
Both of us waiting.
The screen came to life.
I studied the display. Expecting normal throat structures. Maybe some damage. Explanation for muteness.
Found something else entirely.
Froze.
There. Near the spine. Upper cervical area. Shadow that shouldn’t exist.
Foreign object. Too precise to be natural. Regular edges.
“What the hell?”
Crossed to the equipment. “Stay still. Need another shot. More focused.”
Second X-ray. Targeted.
Image developed.
Clear this time. Unmistakable.
Chip.
Not shrapnel. Not accident. Electronic components visible in the imaging. Positioned near C7 vertebra with surgical accuracy.
Someone put this there deliberately.
Size: few millimeters. Placement: near spinal cord but not touching. Shape: manufactured.
Tracking device? Medical monitoring? Neural interface? Control mechanism?
Each possibility more disturbing than the last.
This changed everything.
Someone did this to him. Surgically. With purpose.
Xavier’s palm reached for the back of his neck, fingers pressing against skin like he could feel the chip beneath.
Shock broke across his face. Then darker emotions, betrayal, horror, fury.
Someone cut him open. Implanted this thing. Treated him like property.
Fierce protectiveness surged through my chest. The intensity surprised me. Too much, too fast. But I couldn’t suppress it.
Crossed to him. Wrapped my fingers around his wrist, pulled his touch away from his throat.
Raw emotion met my attention. Lost.
“I know.” Rough. “I’m so sorry.”
He yanked the notepad toward himself. Pen moving in sharp strokes.
More? Check everywhere.
Dread coiled in my stomach.
“Okay. Full body scan.”
The process took an hour. Systematic search through every area. Skull, chest, abdomen, spine, arms, legs, pelvis.
Each clear scan brought relief mixed with mounting confusion.
By the time I finished, the X-ray equipment wheezed from extended use. Xavier’s face had gone pale. My shoulders screamed.
Every image showed the same result.
Just the one chip.
Both of us stared at the X-rays spread across the light board. The single cervical anomaly glowed in stark relief.
Xavier’s pen scratched across paper. What does it mean?
“I don’t know. I’m a nurse, not a neurosurgeon.” Frustration bled through. “This is so far outside my wheelhouse it’s not even in the same ocean.”
He wrote faster. Could it control me? Track me? Kill me?
“Maybe. All of the above. None of the above. I don’t have the knowledge to tell you.”
The silence stretched. Heavy.
We’d found the violation carved into his spine and had exactly zero answers.
Xavier’s palm moved to his neck again.
“Stop.” My fingers wrapped around his wrist. “You can’t feel it. All you’re doing is making yourself crazy.”
Dark and lost, that was how he met my attention.
My thumb brushed across his pulse without thinking.
I flushed. Pulled away.
Crossed to the clinic’s desk. Dropped into the chair before my legs gave out.
Exhaustion hit like a freight train. Three hours of sleep in four days. Body shaking with fatigue I’d been ignoring.
Can’t stop. If I stop, he dies.
Xavier observed me from across the room.
His pen moved. You need rest.
“I’m fine.”
He underlined the words. Twice. Liar.
“Yeah, well. Join the club.”
A ghost of a smile crossed his face.
He crossed to me. Stopped near enough I had to tilt my head back. Wrote on the notepad.
I should leave. Safer for you.
Stomach dropped. Chest constricted. Immediate visceral “no” screaming in my head.
“That might be... smart.” My touch settled on his shoulder. “But don’t. Not yet. We need answers first. Figure out what that chip does. Once we know you’re okay, I’ll help you however I can.”
Something shifted in his expression. Relief, maybe.
He wrote fast. Dangerous for you if I stay.
“Already dangerous. They know someone helped you. I’m not asking for long. You need someone who can treat your injuries. I need someone who can...” Fight. Protect. “Keep me alive if this goes sideways.”
His jaw worked. Processing. Calculating risks.
Finally, he nodded.
“We go back to my apartment. Rest. Research. Can’t do anything useful running on fumes.”
Crossed to the computer station. Unplugged the laptop carefully. Wrapped the cord, tucked both into Xavier’s backpack.
USB drive came next. Copied all the X-ray images methodically. The chip scans especially.
“Grab those.” Gestured toward medical supplies. Gauze, antibiotics, painkillers.
“Final check.” Scanned the clinic space. Make sure nothing appeared disturbed.
Everything looked normal. Untouched.
Except for the laptop-shaped hole and the missing X-ray films.
My palms shook.
Too late for second thoughts.
He crossed to me. Ready?